


The Moon Man

by flora_tyronelle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Horse Racing, Alternate Universe - Muggle, F/M, Horse Racing, M/M, i love that there's a tag for that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-11-07 15:58:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17963624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flora_tyronelle/pseuds/flora_tyronelle
Summary: Remus Lupin: washed up racehorse trainer. Sirius Black: the jockey known as "Atlas". James Potter: magnate in search of success. Peter Pettigrew: the jockey known as "Ratty". And The Moon Man, the horse who will bring them all together.If you've ever thought to yourself, "What I really need is a crossover between the historical actual career of Seabiscuit the racehorse and wolfstar" then this is the place for you, my friend.





	1. The Early Years

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: some of the events and characters in this story are based on real events and people. A brief synopsis of the inspiration for this story will be given in the chapter notes at the end of each chapter.

In Saratoga, it sure did rain. The horses were slick with it, water streaming from their bellies, mud splashing up from each delicate footstep. Onlookers sheltered under broad-brimmed hats or peered out from beneath umbrellas. The whole scene had a dismal, midweek feel to it. Remus Lupin coughed into his fist. He had neither hat nor umbrella, his jockey looked drunk and his horse did not like to run on mud. His heart was sinking fast. The colt by his side was the only one who looked unbothered. His ears flickered, taking in his surroundings. Remus fell into old habits, running his eyes over leg and muscle and shining eye, questioning lameness, then questioning heart. Both appeared in sound order. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad as he feared.

He legged Ratty up, and the skinny, swaying boy fell straight over the other side. _Perhaps not_.

On the second attempt, Ratty, who’s proper name was Pettigrew, stuck fast to the plate.

“Just stay up there,” Remus told him, “Stay up there and let the horse do the job.”

This was the longest sentence he had spoken to another human being in months. His voice felt cracked from the effort, his lungs sore. His hand closed convulsively on the reins, pale and shaking in the grey light. It was 1936 and he was a wreck.

“Got it, boss.” Despite the appearance of intoxication, Pettigrew’s gaze was sharp, his movements suddenly assured. The horses did that to some people. On the ground, a jockey wasn’t much to look at. Put him on a horse, though, and suddenly he was a king.

The call came to move out, and Remus stepped aside. His palm rested flat for one last moment on the horse’s neck: it was a ritual, a prayer. Every horse he’d trained, from the meanest claimer to Fitzsimmon’s finest, went out onto the track with that good luck charm.

_Come back safely, The Moon Man_.

The horse gave no sign of hearing, but Remus knew he’d understood.

~

They’d first met in the rosy lustre of a dawning summers day. A new shipment of two-year-olds had come in from out west, rattling and stumbling off the confines of a railcar into the grey New York light. Sunny Jim Fitzsimmons had been there to greet them, ready to appraise the fresh recruits, choose the best and the brightest. Remus had been a lowly bug boy, already growing too tall, never quite good enough to make it in the saddle but already with one eye fixed on a career as a trainer. He paid attention to how they conditioned the horses, and he had a knack for those that faltered or ailed under the strict regimen. Jim had taken an interest in him.

“Be my eyes, kid, and I’ll show you the ropes.”

That had been the offer, for Sunny Jim had a bad back all over the place, and he walked with an ever-pronounced hunch that forced his gaze towards the ground. Remus had leapt at it. This was his first day on the job, so to speak; he watched with an intensity that made others glance away as the cargo was unloaded.

Black, bay, chestnut, bay again. Nobody would send dross to Sunny Jim Fitzsimmons, the greatest racehorse trainer in the east, but nothing made Remus stir. Until-

“Sir.”

Everything else had already been unloaded. From the shadowy doorway, a groom emerged, lead in hand. The horse that walked beside him was no fire-breather, either. It paused before the ramp, lifting its head in unconcerned curiosity, ears pricked, expression intrigued. Then it sauntered down to the dust of Coney Island. It had a non-descript coat of dark brown, one white sock edging up its left hind, and a curious smear of a marking right between its bright, intelligent eyes. It was certainly not the epitome of thoroughbred beauty. Remus glanced over its angular hindquarters, the way its front legs turned out slightly even when it stood still. And yet, just to look at it, it was _something_.

“What is it?” Sunny Jim asked.

“Something,” Remus muttered. The horse looked back at him, a direct and challenging gaze. Something awoke in his heart at that moment. A strange, nameless something. The sun continued to rise. The horse was led away, into the barn. The exercise riders began to file out.

“Alright,” Sunny Jim said, though he was not one to suffer fools gladly. “Show me.”

~

The colt, it turned out, had both a name and a streak of attitude a mile wide. That first morning, Remus had hurried down the aisle to find the travelling groom cursing enough to turn the air blue.

“He’s a fucker, that one. Turn your back and he’ll eat you alive.”

Remus ignored him and peered into the stall. The horse was a shapeless mass at the back, contentedly messing with his bedding and nibbling at hay. There was no sign of a vicious attacker.

“He got a name?”

“That’s The Moon Man. A finer terror you won’t find anywhere in America.”

Remus allowed the conversation to continue without him.

“He got speed?” Sunny Jim wanted to know.

“Won nothing, pissed off everyone between here and California.”

The Moon Man looked supremely unconcerned by these tales of his reputation. Remus stared and stared. What was it about this horse?

The groom was walking away. Sunny Jim made a pained motion that might have been a shake of the head. Anyone watching might have caught a rare glimpse of exasperation in his clear eyes. Then he joined Remus at the stall door.

“Well, we’ll see if we can make something of it,” He said gruffly. He was not expecting to; he had other horses, other hopes and prospects and concerns. One of the three-year-olds was finally coming into his own- that horse had the makings of a Triple Crown Winner, or Sunny Jim was a doormat. If a dull little horse with a sense of humour didn’t cut it, that was no skin off his back. Still…

“You can work it,” He told Remus. “See what you can do.”

Remus was sure his eyes were very wide.

“Yessir!”

It would be many years before he’d say anything with that much enthusiasm again.

~

The Moon Man simply did not want to run. Remus tried everything. He varied diet and exercise partners and workload and motivation and even, at Sunny Jim’s suggestion, punishment. The Moon Man threw off every jockey who so much as tapped him with a whip. The horse quickly became known as “the pincushion”: once you sat down on it, you got off again, very quickly. Remus didn’t understand. What’s wrong, Remus asked himself over and over in his head, why won’t you run? The horse did not answer him. He wasn’t sour and he wasn’t lame. Nor was he unfit. Remus had seen it as the groups flashed by on their morning gallops. The Moon Man might be lagging along at the back, but when they pulled up he barely even puffed. It was as though the horse refused to try.

It was around then that Remus had one of the more unfortunate ideas of his life. Maybe, just maybe, The Moon Man was waiting for a worthy opponent. He’d approached the boss, asking for a chance to run his horse with the top training group, but Sunny Jim had dismissed him out of hand. Remus knew they were both running out of options. It had been nearly a year, and The Moon Man had lost all his races, and his owner was getting impatient. He was a stallion, he could be sent out to stud. Or he could be shot. What use was a racehorse that wouldn’t run?

So. In 1934, Remus went down to a bar. He sat in the dim, boozy light and watched the shambling forms of skeletal jockeys stumble in for grog. He had no money for bribes and no favours to call in. Subtlety was required. At last, when the night was wreathed in tobacco smoke and the heady stench of liquor, the door swung open. Remus looked up from where he’d been staring at Ferdie “the Bird” (a lanky kid who claimed he could stick on anything) and felt his heart leap to his throat.

Silhouetted against the blackness, attended by half-a-dozen eager bug boys, Atlas stepped into the bar. There was no hush amongst the patrons, but Remus felt it inside him, settling and sticking in his chest. He watched the tall figure saunter across the room and wondered where to start.

Nobody knew where Atlas had come from. He had just shown up one day down in Mexico, presenting himself at Tijuana racetrack with a dummy name and barely the clothes on his back. But when he started to ride, nobody cared about that anymore. Atlas was in a league of his own: an exquisite, unstoppable force sitting quiet up in the saddle. Nothing rattled him, nothing stopped him. The races he rode seemed to unfurl as though to a script he had written; a script that left everyone else trailing behind his broad shoulders like a wake left in water. He was the winningest jockey anytime, anyplace. Now that he was out east it was no different. Remus knew that since he had been here, Sirius Black hadn’t lost a single race. And he was the one tipped to get the ride on Granville.

The tall jockey moved with laconic grace to sit down in front of a beer. The dim light showed golden on his angular face, half in shadow from the brim of his hat, slipping quiet words to his starry-eyed entourage and making them laugh. Other people drifted over to him, seemingly unable to resist the pull of success, the allure of greatness walking in their midst. Remus, who had so often considered himself immune to any kind of glamour, got up without conscious thought and followed.

Black was talking to an agent with his palm flat on the bar. He had a curious manner of speech, an accent that was neither one thing or another, a habit of drawing out the vowels and plumping odd syllables, the melody of it rising distinctive from the melee of the surroundings. The silver inlay on his boots gleamed when he shifted on his stool.

“Lupin!” A hand landed on his shoulder. “Find that key yet?” Old Dagger let out a guttural laugh at his own joke from where he stood at Remus’ elbow. Remus supressed a grimace. He had worked for Old Dagger before he made it to Sunny Jim and a more cantankerous, ornery sod you couldn’t find trackside. Remus had worked to the bone for him, paid a pittance whilst frequently finding himself the butt of obscure practical jokes. The “key” Old Dagger was referring to was the mythical key to the quarter pole, which Remus had spent a miserable day in the sweltering summer searching for- only to discover it didn’t exist. The injustice still rankled, as did the sting of the rod Old Dagger occasionally took to his jockeys when they disappointed him. He stifled an instinctive cringe. He was no longer small and helpless. He was with Sunny Jim Fitzgerald and his star was rising. Courage rose inside him and tripped off his tongue.

“I don’t know, Dagger. Have you had a winner yet? Or is that another trip for biscuits?”

The man gave another short, humourless laugh, then lunged forward.

Remus did not shrink back. Months without reducing had sent him into a late growth spurt and had packed more flesh and muscle onto his slight frame. He was taller than Old Dagger now and he had knocked men down in his time. He figured he could do the same to the old mentor who had once made his life hell. He squared off, ducked away from the first fist that came his way, then landed his own blow to Dagger’s stomach.

Shouts erupted around them. Fights attracted attention: bets were being passed across the commotion, onlookers choosing a side. Dagger landed a punch to the side of Remus’ head and Remus staggered. His blood leapt within his veins, the same way it had used to when he raced. He started forward again.

An arm around his chest stopped him.

“Today’s not a good day to lose your teeth,” a quiet voice advised. Old Dagger was still coming on, face screwed up, fists swinging and Remus struggled against the implacable restraint. Then he found himself propelled backwards as Sirius Black stepped in between the two brawling men. Old Dagger stopped comically short, his mouth hanging open. Even he knew Atlas by sight.

“Gentlemen. I came here to drink a beer and spend a peaceful hour or two in the company of friends. Do the same, why don’t you?”

Remus swayed a little. Old Dagger stayed frozen for a moment, then deflated. There were catcalls from the crowd, but Atlas merely turned back and appraised Remus. He had uncanny pale eyes shining from under the brim of his hat. “Want a drink?”

That was how Remus Lupin found himself sat at a bar, elbow to elbow with Sirius Black. As the barman slid a bottle down to him, Black reached up one hand and removed his hat. His hair was black as coal, hanging in tendrils and brushing his collar in an insouciant, rogue-ish style. His face, finally revealed in full, seemed to have been carved from marble. Remus realised he was staring and turned hastily to his beer. His head was beginning to throb.

“What’s your name?” It was Black’s turn to study him. Remus could feel his gaze on the side of his face. It made him feel very young.

“Lupin. Remus Lupin.”

The jockey smiled a little- Remus could see it out of the corner of his eye. “That your real name?”

Remus took a pull of his beer. It went down easy. “And Sirius Black is yours?”

In the silence that followed, it occurred to him that he might ought to quit challenging people bigger than him. Then Sirius laughed.

“You and I, Lupin, are going to be great friends. Sit and talk to me. Where you from?”

~

The next morning, in the pre-dawn light, three men walked quietly down the shed rows. It was too early for track officials, too early even for the birds to start singing. Horses lay asleep on their straw beds, dark breathing masses lying calm in the shadows. In the Fitzwilliam barn, two stall doors were unlatched, very quietly. Remus hushed the guard dog and did his best to calm his leapfrogging heart. Black looked utterly unflappable. Ferdie “the Bird”, with whom Black had a longstanding jocular feud, was flapping all over the place. They saddled the horses and led them out into the fresh air. The Moon Man wandered out onto the track with his customary swagger. Granville, on the other hand, bounced and jigged with inner tension. _“I’ve sat on him once,”_ Atlas had said over the bar last night, _“that’s enough to lick your boy good and proper.”_ Indeed, he looked poised and relaxed in his battered leather saddle. He even cracked a yawn as they jogged between the barn aisles.

There wasn’t a soul in sight. The two jockeys whispered insults to each other under their breath. Ferdie, the one who’d gotten up on The Moon Man, asked Remus for a whip. Remus shook his head.

“You won’t need it.”

He pressed his palm to The Moon Man’s neck, the habit already forming. _Come back safe_.

The two horses peeled away into the gloom. Granville champed at the bit. Remus reached for a stopwatch.

When they were away on the backstretch, not even he could hear the distant noise of their hooves. There was only the low, grey light and the whispery rush of his breathing. His heart hammered.

_I hope I’m right_. He offered up the thought like a prayer. _I hope I’m right I hope I’m right I hope I’m right-_

The sharp, rattling noise of hooves on good dirt began to shake through the dawn air. Then they were in sight. The two horses were neck and neck. It had happened like this.

Riding away from that pale streak of a trainer, Ferdie had realised that he might have placed a bad bet. Beside him, Granville was lathering up a storm, nostrils blowing, barely restrained by Atlas’ tight hold of the reins. The Moon Man, on the other hand, seemed no more concerned than if they were going for a canter in the park. His dark ears flicked this way and that, seemingly supremely ignorant of what was to come. Ferdie gritted his teeth.

Halfway down the backstretch, the excitement bubbling within Granville finally reached boiling point. With a sharp toss of his head and a screaming leap forward, he broke loose of his jockey’s restraints. Shovelling dirt from beneath his speeding hooves, he scrambled faster and faster until he hit his rhythm, each twenty-four-foot stride carrying him over the track in a dazzling display of acceleration. Ferdie felt a distinct pause in that moment. He had time to ask himself- _will this horse even react?_ He reached with an instinctive memory for his hands and heels.

He was too slow. By the time his body had broken out into the first frantic throes of urging, The Moon Man was already moving. At long last, after months of arrogance and insolence and sheer indolence, a long-dormant competitive instinct had awoken deep within. The Moon Man saw the other horse streaking ahead and he did not like it. And, for the first time in his short life, he was prepared to do something about it.

Ferdie, who was running on little sleep and a lot of beer, was so unprepared for the horse’s lunge forward that he almost fell. Somehow, he dragged his feet back under himself and ducked as low as he could, finding the slipstream. The Moon Man _flew_. Granville, now into his stride and running at the top of his game, should have been slipping out of reach: instead, those thrumming hindlegs were coming closer. Ferdie opened his right hand.

Around the turn, The Moon Man glided through the longer distance. Ferdie was up to Granville’s loins, then his irons were level with his rival’s. For the first and only time in his life, Atlas looked mildly astonished. Ferdie yelled aloud.

On the ground, Remus was electrified. That was his horse- his horse! – matching the Triple Crown hopeful stride for stride. As the pair shot past, Remus saw the expression on The Moon Man’s face. His ears were no longer roving for distraction. They angled backwards, his nostrils were flared. Remus felt sure his eye was locked on Granville’s, asserting a challenge, searching for weakness. The finish line approached. The Moon Man did not falter.

The details of who won and by how much were lost both to time and to the hand landing on Remus’ shoulder: the hand of discovery, of retribution, of bitter fortune. Sunny Jim told him to pack his bags. Nobody messed with another man’s horse. Remus was unable to speak. He wired the last of his savings to The Moon Man’s owner, then spirited the horse onto a railcar. _He could be the fastest horse on the east coast_ , Remus thought to himself, lying in the straw beside The Moon Man’s slumbering form. But how to prove it? He didn’t know.

(Atlas was simply too good to reprimand. He rode Granville in the Belmont Stakes to a reeling, smashing victory, and continued to ascend, untouchable. Every so often, he thought of the pale, lion-haired boy who’d started throwing punches in a bar. Where was he now? Nobody seemed to know.)

~

Two years later, on that rainy Saratoga track, Remus wondered the same thing he had in that swaying railcar. Trainer and ordinary-looking horse had bumped from track to track, winning just enough money to keep eking out an existence- but now the jig was up. His last dollars had gone on a jockey and entry fee. He hadn’t eaten properly for a week; he was sleeping out of a horse stall. The claiming race had been his last option. It felt like the most galling of double-binds: in a claiming race, any horse could be purchased for a set, low price before stepping out onto the track. If The Moon Man finally pulled it together and won, he’d be snapped up for sure. But if he lost, Remus was fairly sure _he’d_ be both starving and homeless, which was an even worse place than he was now. He had no credit for debt and no appetite for prison. As he watched his horse shamble out onto the puddle-strewn track, he felt as though he had hit the end of the line.

Perhaps he had. Or at least, the line as he knew it. Further down the track, somebody else was watching.

~

“That one.”

James scoffed.

The beautiful red-head he was with did not. She continued to stare down at the horses filing onto the muddy racetrack. The one that had caught her eye was at the back of the pack, head held low, exhibiting none of the classic fizz and fire you’d expect of a racehorse. And yet there was no hint of resentment or sourness in its step. She checked the number.

“The Moon Man,” James supplied, having already looked. “Jockey’s a Peter Pettigrew.”

“Oh,” Lily Potter said, evenly, still peering down at the homely little colt. It was plain she had no idea who Peter Pettigrew was; although neither did James. He squinted after her gaze.

“You can’t think that’ll win?”

Lily turned to her husband with a coolly raised eyebrow, a smile playing around her full mouth. “Am I ever wrong?”

James couldn’t help but smile at his wife, he just couldn’t. Married for five years and the sight of her still sent a pleasurable punch to his heart. “Never.”

Lily winked at him. “Exactly.”

James settled in beside her, his hand finding hers and squeezing gently. Oh, but she was magnificent.

They had met when he was twenty-five and she just a few months younger, trawling through an anaesthetised high society party somewhere in upstate New York. James knew that he was still new money, but it was sufficiently large money and in a sufficiently exciting capacity to find himself invited to all sorts of get-ups, where fawning mothers lined up their daughters and asked him about his adventures with motorcars. He had made his fortune in automobiles, promoting them, selling them, racing them wherever he could. The decline of the horse and buggy couldn’t have come at a better time: James drove ordinary models in whatever contest he could find and sales rocketed. Now he had more money than he knew what to do with and a dawning realisation that the gloss of the automobile was fading for him, his interest waning with every passing month. He had been searching for some new passion.

Lily Evans had certainly been a passion. She was the daughter of a disgraced copper magnate, vivacious, beautiful and filled with both stinging wit and a hunger for new experiences. He had been smitten from their first meeting, following her across the country as she showed him better things to do and better ways to be. It had been her who’d introduced him to horse racing, who’d suggested that all that money might go some way towards funding a stable. They had married after a mere six months and had been adding to their happiness (and string of horses) ever since.

Out in the mud, the horses were lining up at the gate. Lily’s tip, The Moon Man, had drawn a bad position, way over on the outside. James glanced over the information again. The horse was coming up five and had terrible form, and it was a rare racer that enjoyed this kind of ground. And yet- his wife had an eye on her. Maybe there was something to look at with that dull brown horse. He raised his field glasses to his eyes.

They came under starter’s orders and then they broke from the gate as one. It was a small field- plenty had scratched from the race due to the weather. The Moon Man hunkered down the outside, ears pulled back against the driving rain. James watched him gallop, watched the low, straight stride stretch and release over the sodden ground. He had grown up around horseflesh, had watched races obsessively for the past five years; he knew a good horse. This was not it. But all the same, he found himself unable to look away. There was _something_.

Slogging through the slippery mud, The Moon Man did not display the brilliance locked deep within him- but when the finish line passed beneath him, his nose was in front. James could see the jockey smiling with relief.

Lily also smiled, showing her teeth. “What do you owe me, dear husband?”

James put down his glasses and found her looking at him with the direct, heady kind of look that promised a long, pleasurable evening later tonight. He stood up, straightening his jacket. “Only everything, dear wife. But perhaps I can arrange something a little more immediate?”

~

Remus greeted his horse for what he assumed would be the last time, and graced Ratty with the closest thing to a smile he ever managed. The Moon Man wasn’t even breathing hard.

“Like candy from a baby,” Ratty grinned. He clapped the big muscle in The Moon Man’s neck with a small, rain-soaked hand, before sliding to the ground. The other horses sidled past, steaming from the effort. Remus could only nod.

“Hey! You there!”

Remus left a moment before turning around- a moment to look his horse in the eye, regard him with pride and no little frustration- but eventually he faced the summons.

What he saw was not what he expected. A well-dressed couple sheltering under a dripping umbrella were staring across the paddock at him. The man, who had hailed him, had a square, handsome face and untidy black hair attempting to escape from under his hat; the woman was pale and slender, her arm looped through his. She raised her hand in a gesture of apparent recognition. Ratty hastened to pull his saddle from The Moon Man’s back, but his attention was also fixed on the strangers.

“You!” The man repeated. “You own this horse?”

Remus saw no use in denying it. “I do.”

“And you train him?”

“I do.”

The man regarded him with a shrewd gaze that felt strangely like looking in a mirror. “My name is James Potter. Can we talk?”

~

The three men made their way back to The Moon Man’s stable. Mrs Potter occupied herself with the barn dog, throwing a chewed up brush for the ugly critter to chase. Remus meanwhile cooled his own horse out, walking him up and down the rows, whilst Mr Potter strode along at his elbow.  Ratty walked on the other side- he was waiting on his split of the claiming money. As they paced, the stranger talked.

“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself properly. I’m Mr Potter. James Potter.” He held out a broad hand to shake. The Moon Man snaked his head irritably and made a face at the tempting target.

“Behave,” Remus scolded without any heat, before he shook Mr Potter’s hand. He felt extraordinarily shabby next to this young man in his tailored suit and brand-new hat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even had a chance to bathe without using water from the barn faucet.

“Remus Lupin,” he offered quietly. Mr Potter looked him straight in the eye for a brief moment. Then he focused his attention on the jockey.

“And you must be Peter Pettigrew.”

“Indeed, sir.” Ratty skipped around The Moon Man’s ornery teeth and returned the proffered handshake with aplomb. Remus waited for whatever was coming next.

“I want your horse.” Mr Potter did not waste time with pleasantries. Remus was at least pleased to see that his eyes were now fixed on the swaggering shape of The Moon Man, rolling along beside them. “Name your price, Mr Lupin, and you shall have it.”

Ratty’s eyes went very wide, and his mouth fell open. Remus fought an urge to laugh. They had finally come to a halt in front of The Moon Man’s stall, the horse breathing naturally, his coat drying off. He played for time, unbolting the door, putting The Moon Man away, swinging the threadbare rug over his quarters.

Then, for no reason at all, he said something rather reckless.

“May I ask why, Mr Potter?”

There was a rather shocked silence after that.

“I mean to say,” Remus continued, in a very mild tone of voice, “he’s got all the form of a gouty snail and he won the race today from sheer luck. Why do you want him?”

Mr Potter regarded him carefully. Then he burst into a hearty guffaw. “You know, don’t you, Mr Lupin? You know how good he is?”

There was another moment of silence. Remus let out an imperceptible sigh. The game was really up now.

“I do.”

“Very well. I’ll make you a new offer. How much will it take for you to come work for me? Bring the horse with you, race him under our colours. You know this horse, Mr Lupin, and I believe there’s more in him than what we saw today.”

Remus stood quite still, a strange fizzing occurring in his chest. Mr Potter glanced back towards the horse, and his eyes lingered on the rickety cot Remus had set up in the corner.

“You could earn enough to stop sleeping in a stall, at any rate.” There was the faintest note of kindness in his tone.

This was the moment, looking back at it. The moment when the orbits had begun to align, when three men and one horse occupied the same small corner of the universe. Great things had been set into motion.

Remus swallowed, and named his price.

~

Even the sunshine at Tanforan seemed purer, full of good air and optimistic philosophy. Remus liked it there. His horse did too. On quality feed and Californian cheer, The Moon Man bulked up and returned to his old, impish ways. His grooms were covered in bruises and Remus hid his laughter beneath the brim of his hat. The horse looked at him across the stall door in the mornings as if to say, “This? Now this is more like it!”

He was racing for the first time since that claimer in just a few days. Remus quietly seethed with hushed excitement. The Moon Man was fit and fast and perhaps, _finally_ , ready. Pettigrew was around to ride him. This morning would be the final test.

Remus, too, felt fitter and faster than he had in years. Such things as a regular salary and a safe place to sleep had worked wonders on him. The racking cough that had persisted ever since he’d been expelled from New York had disappeared overnight. He had two brand new suits and a proper hat: the worn and threadbare clothes that had sustained him for the past two years were relegated to a case at the bottom of the wardrobe. He carried himself differently, too. His shoulders came up, his back straightened. It was as though the terrible weight of failure that had once pressed down on him had been lifted. He stood by the rail and watched the horses file out onto the track.

He had struggled to find a training partner for The Moon Man. The horse would still loaf and goof off when he felt like it- apparently, not all opponents were worthy of defeat- and Remus must have tried him with half a dozen of Potter’s most talented horses before finding one who actually made The Moon Man apply himself. The colt’s name was Numinous, a massive black hellion who stomped and snarled at all and sundry and smashed his way through race after race on the California circuit with a blistering turn of speed. The first time Remus had put them together, he’d told both jockeys to hold the horses back. He wanted The Moon Man to get his eye in. Now, however, there would be no such restraint.

As he watched the two horses canter away to warm up, somebody came up beside him.

“Nice morning for it.”

Remus turned around and saw a lean figure cut out against the early morning light, wearing a familiar, show-boating cowboy hat. He stares for a moment, suddenly aware of the great gulf between them, of two years and success and miles of disgrace or retribution. One night in a bar that still visits his memories from time to unexpected time- and now they’re here. Then he remembers to speak.

“Indeed it is, Mr Black.”

Atlas saunters up to the rail, still looking well, his black hair even longer than when they’d last met. _A rogue_ , Remus thinks, amused.

“Call me Sirius, Mr Lupin.” The jockey eyes Remus from under the brim of his hat a little slyly. “We’ve known each other for two years, after all.”

“If you say so.” Remus hesitates for a moment, unable to look away from those strange, quicksilver eyes. “Sirius.”

For that, he gets a tip of the chin and a half smile. Emboldened, Remus adds, “and you can call me Remus.”

A long-fingered hand reaches up to readjust the cowboy hat and a face comes out of the shadows: a face so lovely, it could make grown women cry.

“Remus,” Sirius says, with a just a hint of playful deference. Then he gazes back out at the track. “That your horse?”

Remus thinks back to that night two years ago and nods, giving a sidelong grin of his own. “That’s the bum.”

“Hah.”

Then, as though by simultaneous agreement, the men stop talking to watch the horses. Remus could not talk when his horses were running. To him it would be like gossiping during sermon. It pleased him to know that Atlas apparently felt the same way.

The two colts were only going eight furlongs today, in keeping with the distance of the race on Saturday, and Remus watched as they drew nearer to the start. The stopwatch was clutched in his hand. He realised that birds were singing. The stands were as empty as they had been all those years ago, the first time The Moon Man had really started to run. A similar kind of stomach-churning turmoil was bubbling up in Remus’ stomach. _I hope I’m right, I hope I’m right, I hope I’m right._

The two thoroughbreds came through the start at a canter and from the moment the jockeys loosened the reins, the outcome of the contest was both clear and inevitable. The Moon Man punched forwards, speed building and building and building through the turn, stride flashing sure over the packed dirt. Numinous didn’t stand a chance. If Remus had not already seen it, he would have doubtless forgotten to stop the watch, so sudden and extraordinary was the acceleration. He watched his horse cruise over the finish line, three lengths in front. The time was clutched in his hand. When he looked down, he felt stopped momentarily too.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

“Did he or did he not just break the track record?” Sirius said quietly. When Remus looked at him, he grinned unselfconsciously. “I know it all, Remus. All the stats, all the times, every runner I ride or race- I got a catalogue-” he tapped his forehead with one finger, “- right up here. Your horse just broke the track record by one and a half seconds, or my eyes need rejigging.”

Remus looked back down at the watch, but he already knew Sirius was right. He tried not to show how startled he was. So _this_ was Atlas’ secret, the secret that made him an infallible winner. And now Remus knew it. It felt absurdly as though Sirius had entrusted him with it.

“Don’t tell,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t tell-”

“BLACK!”

An irate man with the stature of a teapot was haranguing his way towards them, face cherry red, nose like a bruised pickle. Judging by Sirius’ expression, the man’s appearance was at least bordering on inconvenient. Nevertheless, Atlas shrugged away from the rail, leaving Remus with an empty space at his side.

“Agent,” he explained, already sauntering backwards, “might have been riding a horse this morning.”

“Might have?” Remus asked, hesitating towards laughter even as Sirius moved further away. There was a pause, during which Sirius set his hat lower on his head and tipped Remus a final sly grin.

“I won’t tell,” He said. Then he turns his back and leaves.

~

Remus had good reason to want The Moon Man’s speed to stay a secret. Racehorses were assigned lead weights based on their proven speed; horses lugging less weight could run faster. It was an obvious handicap system designed to make the playing field even. But Remus had never seen a horse run as fast as The Moon Man, and he feared any track official getting wind of it, feared the kind of impost they might think necessary to bring his horse back into the pack. Carrying weight also increased the risk of racing. For all that racehorses seemed implacable forces of nature, they were delicately balanced instruments, prone to lengthy or even life-threatening injuries after the most innocuous of stumbles. In the same way that a runner with a heavy pack was more likely to twist his ankle, so a racehorse carrying heavy weight was more likely to end their career out on the track. And this was The Moon Man. Remus couldn’t let that happen.

But the track official didn’t find out, nor the press, nor the betting pool. The Moon Man won his Saturday race in a fine style of two lengths, Pettigrew holding him in the whole way round, a massive long shot down at the wagering windows finally paying good. Remus stood in the winner’s circle and attempted a smile. The Potters ordered champagne. This would become a familiar scene.

The season wore on and 1936 slipped away to the music of cheering and interwoven hoofbeats. The Moon Man swiftly became known, but the high weights Remus had feared never materialised. Track officials seemed unconvinced by the colt. This annoyed James, but Remus assured him this would be their greatest asset. Word had reached them of a relatively new race, one that was turning heads all over the country, out at that new track in Arcadia.

They called it the hundred-grander. Remus felt they were ready. In 1937, it was time to hunt the big guns.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little lingo:  
> impost- the lead (Pb, the element) weight assigned to racehorses by the steward. This is designed as a handicap system, so faster horses carry higher weight.  
> silks- the coloured shirts jockeys wear to race. Every owner has their own colours. If two horses owned by the same person compete in one race, the jockeys wear different coloured caps to distinguish which horse is which.  
> bug boy- term for an apprentice jockey in the 1930s (not sure if it's still in use?). Lowest rung of the riding pecking order.

The new year dawned sluggishly, wreathed in a lazy haze of pipe smoke and the seductive scent of open liquor. Remus awoke suddenly. His head ached: memories of the night before stumbled fractiously through his mind, given painful edges by the belt he’d had before bed. James Potter kept a potent brew or two and had been pouring generously to help welcome in 1937. At least Remus had made it to his bed. As he came downstairs, he found people strewn all over the place, snoring and drooling on the stairs or particularly comfortable patches of floor. He gazed at them in bemusement, then made for the front door. His horses were waiting for him.

It was still early when the Potter’s white Buick pulled up on the strip, expelling Remus Lupin onto the pavement outside the Santa Anita racetrack into the clear morning air.

“Want me to wait?” The driver asked cheerfully. Mr Potter- “ _James, call me James”_ \- had given him all of this: a car, a driver, a room right beside their preposterously large suite at a nearby hotel, all the while insisting not a lick of it come out of his salary. It was very nice, sure, but disquieting at the same time. It made Remus feel like he was in a masquerade.

“No, don’t worry.” He tipped his hat self-consciously and hurried away. The hundred-grander was barely weeks away. He had work to do.

In the awakening barns that marched off either side, their rivals ate or fretted or slumbered. Hollow Call was here, the speed demon from out east; the champion three-year-old Alabaster had also been drawn over the mountains, lured by the massive prize. And, the most fearsome king of them all: the hulking form of Salazar, a great brute of a horse with a mean temper who was back after injury and tearing through fields with every ounce of his old ferocity. Remus knew them all. And he knew that The Moon Man had the measure of them, each and every one. It was his job to make it happen.

He found that the Potter barn was already stirring into the familiar morning routine, smooth as clockwork. The bug boys were feeding and already starting in on stalls. The dog watched Remus approach, but didn’t bark.

“Your moon monster’s in a temper this morning.”

Racing was a young man’s game, but Silas Jones had to be pushing seventy if he was a day, familiar scowl crouching on his brow below iron-grey hair and a little above the piece of straw he was perpetually chewing. James had dug him out of a dustbowl track down near Tijuana and put his formidable skills to use in running the barn. Silas never raised his voice; never made a threat or swung a fist; but what he said flew. The bug boys went round in awe of the old man, along with the older grooms and the animals they cared for. Even the track officials knew him. “Don’t care much for horses,” Silas would always say, “but I do care for the paycheck. Yes, I do.”

Remus could feel his head clearing with the familiar scent of straw and manure. “Is he?”

Silas had a nickname for every four-legged creature in the barn, and The Moon Man was no exception. The old wrangler nodded his head slowly.

“Yessir. Monster he is, this morning.”

Remus allowed himself a quiet grin. “Good.”

Then he went to see his horse.

The Moon Man saw him coming and peeled his ears away from where they had been plastered flat to his skull, transforming his expression from devilish to amiable in a matter of seconds. He was still an ugly bugger, homely and slightly lopsided, one nostril set higher than the other, and even more ugly when he snarled at all-comers. Remus loved him through and through. He lapsed into his usual nonsense talk- _hello, my old man, how are we this morning, yes, good to see you_ \- as he ran his hand over the silken hair and straight bone of the face, then leaned over the door to take a look at his legs. By God, this horse’s legs. Remus had seen better on a table that had been hit by a car. He went to sleep and dreamed about The Moon Man’s legs, plagued by an endless stream of nightmares that all featured breaks or tendons or snapped ligaments.

“Some catch I’d make,” he joked to the horse, unbolting the door and crawling into the knee-high straw to have a feel, “going to sleep with horse’s legs on my mind…”

But today, The Moon Man’s legs were no worse than usual, and Remus could breathe again. He brushed the bedding off his trousers and stepped back into the aisle. The horse watched him with an easy confidence.

“You’re ready, aren’t you?” Remus asked the horse.

Of course, The Moon Man made no reply; but Remus felt sure he knew the answer.

~

The first prep race rolled out as though to a script written by Remus. The Moon Man was vivacious, joyful even, out on the Santa Anita track. He skipped through field, winning by some two lengths, garnering some curious looks from the journalists already sniffing around this year’s hundred-grander. This delighted James. As far as Remus was concerned, he was welcome to it. His horse would run the way he would run, regardless of the press. And anyway, The Moon Man still wasn’t the horse that everyone was talking about. Salazar was back on the track, terrorizing the gate officials, furiously pounding his rivals when they finally did get underway. Rumour had it that Atlas was going to take the reins. Remus read this and wondered.

As the race approached, excitement began to build to a feverish pitch. The Moon Man’s last run before the hundred-grander was the San Antonio handicap, and also running was Salazar, all of a lather and in towering form. Sirius Black would not be in the saddle, it turned out. For some reason, Remus did not feel consummate relief when he heard this. Perhaps it was because Atlas now had no reason to be here for the big race. Perhaps. Regardless, he had little time to dwell on it. He looked over the rest of the runners in the San Antonio and decided that his horse had the lick of all of them.

“It’s Salazar,” he told Ratty, the night before the race. “He’s the one. Gun him down. That’ll make them sit up in the stands.”

The imposts for the hundred-grander were out- The Moon Man was carrying weight, but not a lot. It was the best Remus could have realistically hoped for. It was time to unleash the horse for real.

Remus could not sleep the night before. As always, he dreamed of The Moon Man’s legs, but this time he heard cheers, too, and the thundering of galloping hooves.

The San Antonio handicap dawned with dryness and a hard, fast track. The Moon Man shouldered his way out into the parade ring with a consummate ease that was swiftly becoming his trademark. All around him, thoroughbreds bounced and jigged sideways. The dull brown horse cocked an ear but made no other comment. Remus legged Ratty up, wearing the red and gold silks of the Potters, and gave him a quiet look. Then he touched the horse’s neck with the flat of his palm.

_Come back safe._

The horses filed out onto the track.

Remus had indeed looked at the field, and going on form the only horse that could come remotely close to challenging The Moon Man was indeed Salazar- but form and speed do not tell all. Also out on the track that day was a nicely bred colt who went by the name of Doloros, who had never quite fulfilled his promise. The reason for this was an unfortunate habit that manifested itself out on the racetrack. Quite early on in any given race, Doloros would often abruptly slow in a motion known as propping, then sag to one side, like a drunk unexpectedly encountering a curb. All his momentum would tip sideways, killing his acceleration and giving his jockey a nasty fright. It also gave a nasty fright to the unfortunate jockeys who happened to be bunched close to Doloros, and who suddenly found half-a-ton of racehorse slewing into their own mounts’ trajectories. This was the way wrecks were made.

In the San Antonio handicap, Doloros and The Moon Man were drawn side-by-side in the gate. And, perhaps five strides after the field broke under starter’s orders, Doloros did exactly as he had always done.

Ratty received only a split-second warning. Frantically, he tried to pull The Moon Man away from the danger, but he was far too slow; Doloros rammed into The Moon Man and nearly sent his legs out from under him. Right beside the rail, watching intently, Remus felt his blood freeze. Up in a box, Lily gripped James’s hand so tightly her fingers went white. The rest of the runners streamed away, up the track.

Somehow, The Moon Man regained his footing. Ratty rode for the next few moments with his heart in his mouth, feeling for lameness in The Moon Man’s familiar, jabbing stride- but he felt nothing. The horse was fine. Together, horse and jockey turned their attention to the rest of their opponents, who were by now at least ten lengths up ahead and building speed all the time. Resolution hardened in both of them.

“I don’t believe it!” The announcer was shouting, through Remus’s haze of fear and scrutiny. “The Moon Man is cutting back to the rest of the field!”

Remus could not tear his eyes away from the horse, still frantically searching for any hint of injury or unsoundness, but out on the periphery of his focus he could see that The Moon Man was indeed passing other horses, passing them with an astonishing burst of speed.

“He’s catching up!” The announcer shrieked, quite overcome. The crowd was in pandemonium. The finish line came up, then flashed away. The Moon Man was still two lengths back from the black rump of Salazar, still running, still building speed.

He came in fifth. Salazar won by a length. Ratty could barely speak with fury. Remus slept in the horse’s stall that night, but when the morning came and The Moon Man was as sound as ever, he smiled once more.

“That wasn’t the real race,” he could be heard saying to the horse, in that odd way he had. “The real race is coming, buddy. It’s coming.”

~

On the morning of the Santa Anita Handicap, Silas Jones found Mr Lupin sat on a rickety chair outside The Moon Man’s stall, watching carefully over the horse’s slumbering form. Damn dog hadn’t made a peep- it was curled up by his feet. Silas chewed on his piece of straw and cleared his throat.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Remus paid him little mind. All his attention was on the horse in front of him. “I can sleep later, Mr Jones. Later.”

Silas grunted and left him to it. The organic machine of the barn whirred into life along with the creeping dawn. It would be a fine March day, the kind with a hint of spring laced through the air. Out on the track, the dirt was drying from a series of squalls that had hit a couple of days ago. Horses started to bang their doors, impatient for breakfast, whickering flirtatiously at the grooms walking down the aisles. In his stall, The Moon Man finally stirred, lurching to his feet with a rustle of straw. Remus got to his feet, too.

In a day, it would all be over, he reminded himself. The same morning routine will happen tomorrow, regardless of how he runs today.

His mind refused to quieten. He stowed the chair and went for a walk out to the track.

The Potters arrived a couple of hours before the race, dressed up and fairly vibrating with excitement. Remus listened to James talk about bets and champagne with half an ear until the conversation suddenly ground to a halt.

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” James said, amused. Remus ruefully shook his head. “Not to worry.” James clapped him on the shoulder in his familiar jocular manner. “They’ll be plenty of time to talk after we’ve won!”

Remus gave a smile that was only somewhat painful and turned back to his horse. Ratty had just showed up. Crowds were pouring into the stands. The hour was nearly upon them.

“Bring him home safely,” Lily said, kissing Remus and Ratty on the cheek, then her husband shook their hands.

“See you on the other side, gentlemen.”

Remus was still unable to speak. Distantly, they could hear the announcer testing the commentary system. The shout went up for the parade ring. Remus took hold of his horse’s bridle and led him out of the barn, heading for the track. The bug boys and grooms stood by to watch. They sensed it, too. Something was in the wind.

The parade ring passed in a blur to Remus. He seemed slow in amongst the jostling, excited horses, the poker-faced jockeys, a rock in a stream, anchored by his hand on The Moon Man’s reins.

_Come back safely_. He made his prayer and then they were gone, cantering out over the track, lining up at the start gate. The Moon Man had a fairly good position, drawn in the middle of the pack. Remus watched with his heart in his mouth. It all came down to this.

The starter rang the bell. The field broke as one, Salazar way over on the inside, the purple silks of Alabaster already lunging for the front, Hollow Call tracking him the whole way. Ratty wasn’t worried. He had his instructions and he knew this horse, knew the way The Moon Man liked to run. For the first half of the race, all they had to do was keep up and stay out of trouble. Ratty’s eyes scanned back and forth across the track, watching his opponents, making the calculations in his head that good jockeys found came instinctively. How fast were the leaders, how far out were they, how were they looking for speed, for stamina? As most of the field went bounding after Alabaster’s blistering lead, Ratty tweaked the left rein and allowed The Moon Man to cruise along up the inside, hunting the other horses with his usual stalking stride. They had time.

Up in the front, Alabaster was already beginning to falter, whittled away by his own fierce acceleration. Salazar was right behind him, a terrible black shadow, screaming against the bit to be let loose; but on his right was Hollow Call, linked up and duelling as the horses streamed out around the turn. Ratty watched it all from the saddle. The Moon Man lay strongly against his hands, practically begging to be allowed more, but they had run up into the debris left by the leaders’ punch of speed and Ratty could not risk it. The track straightened out. The roar of the crowd grew ever louder in their ears. A thrill of fear went through Ratty. _There was not enough time_.

Watching from his customary position at the rail, Remus agreed. The Moon Man did indeed prefer to close at the end of the race, waiting until his opponents were already leg-weary before pouncing and dashing them in his wake, but all this waiting had left the horse caught up behind a traffic jam of three no-hopers and there was no way through. The finish line was drawing nearer and it was Salazar and Hollow Call locked in battle all the way to the end.

Ratty did the only thing he could think of. He pulled The Moon Man out wide, cutting around the jam and wasting acres of precious time and space- but then he let go. Pent up, practically infuriated by the persistent _slowness_ , The Moon Man wasted no time. He threw himself forward and exploded into a dead run, Ratty urging him on all the way. They streaked past Alabaster, who now laboured three lengths back. They caught Hollow Call’s rump, then the jockeys found themselves level. On the inside, Salazar continued to storm onward.

The crowd were on their feet. Nobody had _ever_ seen a horse come from behind like that. Men were hollering at the top of their lungs. Remus, white-faced, was completely silent. His heart was out there on the track with his horse, and out there it was all quiet, just the breathing and the rumble of hoofbeats. That was the noise Ratty now heard. The world narrowed. Hollow Call, already struggling, broke. He and his frantically flailing jockey dropped away, and now it was just The Moon Man and Salazar, the black and the brown, streaking down the track together. Ratty rode for his life. Three strides away. Then two. Then one.

The horses crossed the line together.

It seemed to take an age to find out the result. The press box was boiling over. James and Lily Potter had leapt to their feet in triumph, popping champagne, overflowing with joy. Remus was in silent agony.

The result flashed up on the board. The winner was Salazar.

Later, Remus would be shown the finish line photograph: Salazar, ears pinned back, straining with all his might, had his nose- just his nose, nothing but a nose- in front. The Moon Man looked the picture of ease, expression still eager. When Ratty pulled the horse up, he was barely even puffing. In their box, James and Lily plastered smiles onto their faces and made their way out with their heads held high. They couldn't bear to stay for the celebrations afterwards. They still sent champagne up to the press box, though, as they had promised to do if The Moon Man won. Just a nose, after all. Just a nose.

The Moon Man was unperturbed. Remus greeted his horse around the hollowness in his chest and told Ratty to go celebrate. The jockey seemed shrunken, unable to explain what had happened. Remus tried to tell him that it didn't matter, but he couldn't get the words out. He took the horse's reins and led him away, away from the winner's circle, away from the crowds, away from the last remnants of the hundred-grander. Then he cooled The Moon Man out, walking beside that ugly head, nodding distractedly when James came down to commiserate. To his shame, tears even started to threaten, hot and insistent. He swallowed them away, unable to speak.

Eventually, even he had to admit that the horse didn’t need any more walking. He put him away, walked off the racetrack and into a bar. He sat there for many hours.

Late in the night, somebody sidled up to him and took the seat at his side.

“Hello, stranger.” Sirius Black’s voice was quiet amongst the ruckus of the bar. Remus looked, then abruptly fumbled for his voice, like it was something he’d forgotten was in his hands and had suddenly dropped.

“Hello.” The word came out cracked and snarled. It was the first time he’s spoken since The Moon Man walked out onto the racetrack, he realised. Sirius, still wearing that ridiculous hat, quirked a smile.

“Rough day, I hear. I won’t talk to you about noses.”

Remus grunted and turns back to his drink.

“Horse of yours still has a lick of speed on him,” Sirius continued, with that continued air of gentle, private amusement. “I was watching. He’ll have the hundred-grander one day or I’m the president.”

“You were watching?” That was not the part that was most important, and Remus was surprised when the words spilled out of his mouth. But then again, he supposed that he was now very drunk and ought to be excused some lapses in concentration, because he’s drunk. Had he mentioned that?

“You did, pal.”

Oh. Out loud, too?

Sirius nodded slowly, still looking at him from beneath the brim of his hat. That smile won’t leave his good-looking mouth alone. How vexing.

“Never thought you’d be the type to drown your sorrows,” Sirius remarked. This reminded Remus that he still had more to drink, so he got back to it. Then he stared morosely at the bottom of his glass and muttered,

“…by a _nose_.”

“He doesn’t know he’s lost.”

Remus continued staring at the bottom of his glass. Then Sirius’s words somehow penetrated the haze and lodged up in his brain, rent-paying, sense-making. Of course.

“I’m for the horse,” he mumbled, then set his glass back down on the bar. “Here, I mean.”

Sirius arched an eyebrow. “ _Here?_ That’s a new one. “My horse made me do it”.”

Remus pushed himself off the stool, wobbling slightly. Sirius caught his balance with all the wiry strength of a jockey and set him right. Remus nodded solemnly in thanks, then made his way out of the bar, back across the road, back to the silent cathedral of the racetrack at night.

“Not here,” he repeated, flinging his arms wide. “ _Here_.” Then he kept walking, heading for the barns. Behind him, Black’s footsteps followed, eerily loud in the dark. An important question occured to him. “Why are you here?”

Black shrugged, suddenly walking beside him. “Had a feeling history might be in the making. Felt like I ought to be here.”

“A nose!” Remus shouted, bitterly. Sirius cracked up laughing by his side.

“A nose! A nose! My kingdom for a nose!”

“A _fucking nose_!” Remus yelled again, and that set the barn dogs to yammering at the sound. Sirius was laughing so hard that he was nearly bent double, but he still managed to reach around and gag Remus with a palm across his mouth. The two of them lurched around for a moment and Remus’s head was spinning from the drink and the contact and the laughter that was thrashing around in his chest like a fish on the dock. How could he be so happy and so sad all at once?

Eventually, the wrestling was broken up by saliva and stifled giggles, and the two men walked on down the shed rows. They washed up exactly where Remus should have been all along: outside The Moon Man’s stall, where the horse himself was curled up on the straw like a hen, his slumbering breath a pleasant baritone rumble underpinning the exquisite silence of night.

“He doesn’t know he lost,” Remus muttered to himself. Then he changed the words around, hearing them differently. “He still thinks he won.”

“And he’ll go on thinking that,” Sirius whispered. It was the first time Remus had heard him whisper. In the grey-blue-blackness it seemed absurdly precious, somehow intimate, a susurration that spoke of some deeper vulnerability that Remus was only now allowed to see. He held himself very still.

The Moon Man continued to breathe peacefully. Nothing changed. He believed he had won. Remus felt an ache inside himself that was quite apart from disappointment and wondered how to address it. It seemed to have something to do with the space around him, the emptiness of it. But what was it? He was drunk. He couldn’t seem to make sense of it.

“Was that out loud?” He asked, quietly.

“No,” Atlas replied, after a strange moment. “No, it wasn’t.”

They stayed at the horse’s door like supplicants at a shrine until the dawn came, until the morning routine once again swung into motion, and Atlas was finally able to shunt Remus off to his hotel.

They don’t see one another again for a year.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The Moon Man is loosely based on Seabiscuit, the real horse with ugly conformation and an astonishing turn of speed.  
> \- Remus is very loosely based on Tom Smith, Seabiscuit's trainer, who transformed the horse into a champion.  
> \- "Sunny Jim" Fitzsimmons was a real person, who did indeed train an incredible number of racehorses to the heights of American horse racing. He also did suffer from crippling arthritis, to the extent that in his later years he learned to identify his horses by the sight of their hooves alone.  
> \- Sirius is very loosely based on George Woolf, a prodigious jockey known as "the Iceman". He really did piss off his agent, quite a lot.  
> \- James is very loosely based on Charles Howard, Seabiscuit's owner who's fortune came from selling automobiles.  
> \- Lily is very loosely based on Marcella Howard, Charles' wife.
> 
> Yes, in this fic James and Lily are not contemporaries, age-wise, with Sirius, Remus and Peter.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I really appreciate it :)


End file.
